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Apr 16
A halo falls thru its circle,

has no memory of its

circle.

Hovers over the top of

a head.

The stagnant expanse

of an abyss--pure enough

to be of.

Until a wanderer lets

wandering go ahead.

Capped poles blown

open.
Onoma
Written by
Onoma  NYC
(NYC)   
62
   Mike Adam
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